


like i did yesterday

by neonbreadsticks



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Flashbacks, M/M, asshole bosses, what even is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonbreadsticks/pseuds/neonbreadsticks
Summary: Esteban knows what Otmar wants him to do. What Checo wants to see from his place there on the stage. Yet Esteban can’t even decide if he wants to laugh or cry. He wants to squeeze the life out of Checo and crush him in a never-ending hug because he knows. Heknowshow long Checo has longed for this. And still, he wants to throw tantrums and slam doors and cry silently while listening to his favourite music because it should behimon that podium. It should behimbeing ignored by Kimi and being sprayed with a four-time world champion’s champagne.Checo is looking at him. Expectantly. Like a child begging his mother for a lollipop.Esteban feels the cameras on him.So he rolls his eyes and glares at the floor.And hopes that Checo can hear the tiny party Esteban is throwing for him in his head.
Relationships: Esteban Ocon/Sergio Pérez
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	like i did yesterday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondlifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondlifetime/gifts).



It’s Monday morning. And Esteban is already awake when his alarm goes off. The sheets under him are too warm, so he moves to a colder part of the bed. It’s better for about two minutes, until he feels the sweat starting to form on his back again. He shifts and lets the cycle repeat itself. 

Some may say that the beautiful French skyline outside his window is one to remember for years to come. Esteban prefers the view of his ceiling. White paint over white plaster, save for a hole that a water seepage last year created. He hasn’t called the landlord to fill it in. 

He reaches for last night’s coffee on the nightstand, and then realises he can’t drink it laying down. 

It’s returned to its original place. 

_I wonder how he’s doing._

Esteban grabs his phone and scrolls through Instagram. It’s therapeutic - watching people try to be a seemingly effortless, perfect version of themselves. And to him, right now? Therapeutic or not, anything is a welcome distraction. 

Instagram gets old quickly, so he opens his texts, ignores all the new ones and scrolls down to the bottom. 

_[26 November 2018, 6:32PM] I’ll be there._

\--------------------

It starts with the bittersweet taste of champagne running down another man’s throat. 

Esteban can’t not watch. His teammate is literally on a giant podium, being broadcasted onto every single screen in the paddock. And even if he wants to leave, there’s nowhere he can go. He’s surrounded by a sea of pink minions that chant the same name over and over again. 

Someone elbows him in the rib.

He takes a moment to curse his stupidly long torso.

He looks around for a moment. Otmar gives him a thumbs-up.

_Keep up the good work._

The facade is working, he tells himself. He’ll be on the front page of the news tomorrow, hopefully.

It’s good publicity for teammates to hate each other, Otmar says.

Esteban can’t lie. It does sting a little, watching Checo dance around with his humongous bottle of champagne. It does hurt, seeing Checo attempt to start a conversation with Kimi, and settling to talk to Lewis instead. It kills him, knowing that his _friend_ is happy, and that he doesn’t know how to react at all. 

Esteban knows what Otmar wants him to do. What Checo wants to see from his place there on the stage. Yet Esteban can’t even decide if he wants to laugh or cry. He wants to squeeze the life out of Checo and crush him in a never-ending hug because he knows. He _knows_ how long Checo has longed for this. And still, he wants to throw tantrums and slam doors and cry silently while listening to his favourite music because it should be _him_ on that podium. It should be _him_ being ignored by Kimi and being sprayed with a four-time world champion’s champagne.

Checo is looking at him. Expectantly. Like a child begging his mother for a lollipop. 

Esteban feels the cameras on him. 

So he rolls his eyes and glares at the floor. 

And hopes that Checo can hear the tiny party Esteban is throwing for him in his head. 

  
  
  


It’s dark when Esteban flees the hotel, looking over his shoulder to check if Checo is close behind. 

Only when they’re in a less populated area does he slow to a more reasonable pace. Shadows of run-down buildings greet them with welcoming arms. 

He gives Checo a moment to catch his breath, waiting until Checo’s pants come at an easier rhythm. 

“Too fast for you, old man?”

A wheezy chuckle. 

“Baku is nice at this time, no?”

Esteban offers a shrug. Scenery isn’t really his thing. Besides, talking about scenery is strictly reserved for people in grocery store aisles who have nothing better to say to each other. He has more faith in their relationship than that. 

The pub is almost empty when they enter - the only people being a too-drunk-to-stand man, haphazardly flinging darts at the dartboard, while his equally drunk comrades cheer him on. His best throw so far has landed on an eleven. 

The bartender gives them a nod, pointing an age-spotted finger towards a booth in the back. 

Esteban smiles in appreciation. This is more his speed. A place where everyone is either too old or intoxicated to recognise him. Or question why he’s here with his biggest rival. 

They take a seat, and soon, conversation flows, like the whiskey snaking through Esteban’s veins. Conversations of weather and scenery are left far behind them as they drink deeper into the night. (Or rather, as Esteban drinks. Checo only has water. Something about too much champagne.) 

They drown out the sounds of whooping drunkards and irritated bartenders with stories.

Tales of childhood and family and _sweet Mexicana_ and _vive la France!_ that they’ve both heard a hundred times before fill the air as the bartender refills their drinks for the thirtieth time.

Esteban doesn’t care if he knows how each and every one of Checo’s broken-English stories end. And he doesn’t care if Checo is sick of all of his broken-English stories either. 

And eventually, they’re left there, sitting in silence. Comfortable silence. Each man nursing his own drink as well as his own thoughts. 

Esteban looks over to the dartboard man. He’s passed out on the table, dart still held firmly in his hand. His gaze shifts to the bartender. Uncleaned glasses sit patiently on the countertop as he fixates all his attention onto the tiny television showing a football match. The red team appears to be losing. 

“Do you think it’ll ever happen?”

Checo raises his eyebrows in question. Esteban is already ready to repeat the question. Sentences that break the silence are always confusing.

“Do you think I will ever get a podium?” 

Esteban watches as a small smile tugs at his friend’s lips. Checo rotates the glass of water on the table. 

“I think you will be happy when you step out of the car for the last time.”

Esteban wants to throw his whiskey in Checo’s face. It is a nice sentiment. Beautiful, even. Yet it doesn't answer his question directly and he needs an answer or he might just go insane looking for one. 

“It just seems like the closest I can get to the champagne is watching you drink it.”

Esteban looks up from his whiskey. Checo is still smiling. Esteban goes to question it but stops himself. _He’s probably reliving his podium._ He can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for Checo. A fifth podium was still a podium nonetheless, and sharing it with two world champions? Even better. All Esteban longs for is a taste, but he’ll never know if he’ll get it and it all seems so far away and he’s getting _old_ and time is running out and—

_Oh._

It’s not so much a kiss, but rather the faintest brushing of Checo’s lips against his. Whiskey meets dry tap water, yet under the surface, there’s something more. Esteban presses harder, softer, rougher, gentler, _scrambling_ to find it. 

And then he notices.

The faintest tinge of grapes. The bittersweet tang of something that once used to be fizzy, now muffled by the water. And so Esteban drinks it all in and it’s nothing but white beaches and rolling mountains and victories and happiness and _Checo’s smile._

He’s still smiling when they pull away. 

“Did you taste it?”

Esteban nods.

He doesn’t realise he’s smiling until his cheekbones start to ache.

\--------------------

And so they carry on like they always have, and nothing is different but everything has changed. 

Esteban finds himself waiting for Checo’s knock on his trailer door. Finds himself cheering his teammate on after his early collision earns him yet _another_ retirement.

But retirements, in Esteban’s eyes, are just opportunities for him to lay in Checo’s lap, letting the older man thread his fingers through Esteban’s hair while soft French music plays out of the speakers. He lets Checo complain about Force India’s _pendejo_ engine, and about how they would get so many more podiums if the people on their management team weren’t ‘ _hijo de las mil putas_ ’. 

He later learns that this means ‘sons of a thousand whores’.

It makes him laugh.

Once Checo has gotten all of that out of his system, there’s nothing but the ghostly voice of Edith Piaf floating through the room. Esteban lets it stay that way for a while. He would very much like to take his own digs at the Force India team, but Checo was there for him in Spain and whatever other race Esteban wasn’t pleased with. Returning the favour would be ideal. 

This is just how they are. Not too pushy, not too clingy, and somehow, not too distant.

Just the right amount.

A small lick for each wound. 

A shy _hey, just landed_ for each country.

A simple souvenir on the doorstep, paired cheesily with a cheap airport gift card bearing the words _Good Luck!_ written in shitty ballpoint ink for each race.

Esteban looks up at Checo and _sees_. 

He sees the wrinkles on his forehead, the circles under his eyes, the clench of his jaw and sees the skeleton of a man, hacked to death by his own ambition. And the look in Checo’s eyes is familiar, because it mirrors his own.

Checo’s hand stills. Esteban waits for it to start again. It doesn’t.

Checo is staring at him.

And Esteban just goes for it because the moment is so _right_ and he _knows_ that Checo feels this too. 

Until Checo turns his head, leaving Esteban’s lips to meet with cold, bearded skin. 

_Checo, I_ —

Checo is staring at him in _horror_. 

Esteban’s lips are cold but his body is hot and Checo’s knees are burning a goddamn hole in his fireproofs and he may just burst into absolute flames and combust, because the moment is so _wrong_ and everything he thought he knew never actually existed in the first place. 

“I thought—”

“ _No._ ”

_It was a mercy. An act of pity._

The door shuts quietly - the sound of a polite houseguest not wanting to cause a disturbance.

Edith Piaf wails louder. 

\--------------------

And so they carry on like they always have, and nothing is the same but nothing was ever there to begin with. 

Esteban still finds himself looking for Checo in the briefing room, in the garage, on the goddamn _racetrack_ even. Checo is always there. Always offering a _hi_ but nothing more and so Esteban keeps on searching but never finds what he’s looking for. 

\--------------------

It’s been a fucking _month._ A month of awkward team videos and hesitant waves and conversations about the _weather._ At least it’s been a month without any retirements. Maybe Checo’s good luck gifts weren’t needed in the first place. 

_Is it a need or a want?_

Esteban thinks Germany will fix everything.

And for a second, he almost believes this, because according to Otmar, they’ve ‘performed spectacularly and are in need of a celebration!’

Parties are great places to clear the air.

Until Esteban reaches the party and realises that it’s not a party, but rather a room of men in tailored suits holding wine glasses. What was sold as a party turns into a conversation about team strategy for next year and the most celebratory aspect of the whole thing seems to be a rehearsed _congratulations_ from everyone around the table. 

Checo sits across from him. Esteban’s legs are long enough to reach Checo’s if he stretches. If this was a month ago, he would most definitely have kicked Checo and they most definitely would’ve started a mini kicking war under the table and under Otmar’s unknowing gaze. 

Checo stares at the clock on the wall and inspects his fingernails.

_He looks well._

Esteban keeps his legs tucked underneath his chair. 

\--------------------

Esteban doesn’t like expiry dates. No one likes bearing the knowledge that something will eventually run out and be rendered obsolete. The thing is, expiry dates often come hand in hand when the item is produced. Esteban isn’t given his expiry date until Belgium. 

He knew it was coming. 

He just didn’t realise that it would come in the form of a friend. 

Esteban is eating muesli when his phone pings. The sheer lack of raisins frustrates him. He’ll buy some from the petrol station across the road. 

He presses the notification. It’s an email to the whole Force India team. 

_Let’s all welcome our new sponsor, Lawrence Stroll, and his son, Lance, to the Force India family!_

And at the bottom of it all, the most important line: _Lance will have a pre-arranged spot in our driver lineup for the 2019 season._

Esteban chokes on an oat. 

Lance Stroll. The scrawny kid from Formula Three. The one friend he’d kept all through his move up into Formula One. _That_ Lance. 

To put it simply, Lance wasn’t particularly _liked_ by anyone, which was probably what made it so easy for Esteban to be his friend. Esteban didn’t have to like the guy either. He just lets Lance hang around from time to time. Because pushing him away would be plain rude, and because the poor guy had nowhere else to go. 

_And maybe because he was just as lonely as Lance._

Esteban takes longer than usual to finish his muesli.

  
  


There’s a bright red Ferrari in Esteban’s lot when he pulls into the carpark. He curses and backs into a guest lot instead. 

  
  
  


Esteban hears loud, chesty laughter before he even sees the guy. Lawrence Stroll has a big presence, and not just physically. The man was standing amidst a group of ass-kissing mechanics, basking in the glory while hiding behind designer shades that probably cost more than Esteban’s full net worth. 

Esteban doesn’t know how to react when Lawrence raises a ring-clad hand in his direction. A small smile will suffice.

That should be enough social interaction for a while.

Esteban tries to not look too obvious as he scans the room for a certain face. He sees the familiar tuft of hair behind the chocolate fountain. 

So he makes his way over because he’s absolutely _craving_ chocolate, and definitely not because he wants to talk to whoever is standing beside it. 

And then he spots _Lance_ next to Checo, and suddenly chocolate just doesn’t seem as appetising anymore. Esteban nods to himself. Chocolate can be bought from the supermarket. He will buy some for himself later. 

He almost makes it away undetected, when a nasal voice screeches his name.

So he forces himself to turn around. 

“Esteban, hey! Fancy seeing you here!”

_This is literally my team’s welcome party for you._

“So I was kinda talking to Sergio over here and, uh, did you know that his favourite song is _Color Esperanza_? What a cool guy!”

Esteban tries to smile. It ends up looking more like a wince. He _didn’t_ know that about _Sergio_. All he does know is that he would love to throttle Lance right then and there. But that would be bad for his reputation, so he refrains.

Checo is smiling at the ground, looking way too pleased with himself. It would be nice to take him down a few pegs. 

“Hey, Lance, did you know _Sergio’s_ favourite actor is Denzel Washington?”

Checo’s smile falters. Esteban ignores it. 

He doesn’t address the fact that this was something they talked about back in Baku.

( _“I love Denzel Washington.”_

_“Your age is starting to show, Checo. Denzel isn’t cool anymore.”)_

Esteban enjoys the awkward moment of silence that washes over the group. His job here is done. 

Until Lance opens that spoonfed _piehole_ of his and starts yapping about how _Denzel Washington is so retro, dude! That’s so dope._

Esteban gives a shitty excuse about how he left his oven on and leaves. The conversation was flowing better without him anyway.

  
  
  


He spends the night before the race watching last year’s Belgian highlight reel. And it's almost as if he's back in the car again, going wheel to wheel with Checo. They weren’t friends yet - borderline acquaintances it seemed. Not much has changed.

Right before he goes to bed, he pulls out his phone and types out a message. His hands are shaking when he hits send.

_[25 August 2018, 11:31PM] Good luck._

Esteban takes the next few minutes to curse himself for being nervous over a fucking text message. 

_Who cares if he replies anyway?_

He flings the phone across the bed and rolls over.

He only picks it up again to turn it face up.

  
  


That night, Esteban wakes up panting. His brain cells seem to be playing pingpong with each other.

It’s three in the morning according to his phone. He opens Checo’s chat just to be sure. 

_Read._

Esteban doesn’t dream when he goes back to sleep.

\--------------------

The Singapore Grand Prix is a disaster in itself. 

Esteban’s English wasn’t fantastic, but at least he understood and _listened_ when Otmar banned them from racing each other. Clearly someone else needed to go back to school. 

There wasn’t much he could do, honestly, apart from flying into the wall and cursing one driver in particular. 

He’d expected nothing from Checo anymore - both physically and emotionally. Whatever relationship they’d built up seemed to be reduced to nothing more than people who were forced to interact on a weekly basis. Acquaintances who were once friends, pretending to be enemies. 

Esteban doesn’t know if they’re even pretending anymore. 

He means everything he says about Checo in the post-race interviews. And it’s blind _rage_ that spills out of his mouth when he hears Checo’s brilliant excuse.

“Oh, I didn’t even see him.”

It takes all of his self-respect to prevent himself from causing serious damage to the wall in his hotel room. 

And then he falls onto the blankets and cries. 

He cries over times when they had trouble thinking of terrible things to say about each other, and times when a good luck message wasn’t mandatory. Because everything that came after that was a mistake. 

_None of this had to ever happen and it was all his fault and if only he was happy enough with whatever he already had and who the absolute_ **_fuck_ ** _is banging on his door?_

Otmar’s appearances are never really welcome, but Esteban _especially_ doesn’t want to see him now. 

Not when he looks like his grandmother just died. 

So Esteban looks through the peephole and almost cries all over again, because it’s Checo. 

The door can’t seem to unlock fast enough. And when it does, Esteban wishes it happened slower, because he didn’t think this through. 

_Now what?_

He’s almost about to slam the door shut again when he spies something dangling from Checo’s finger. It’s a keychain, with a tiny race car attached. _Singapore 2018_ is painted across the body in pink cursive letters. It’s tacky. But not much else was expected from the pit lane gift shop. 

Checo is shaking. His eyes are red-rimmed, hair is matted in one spot. He’s trying to go for nonchalant, and failing terribly.

Esteban smiles. 

“Hey, old ma—”

The sentence is barely finished before soft lips meet his own for the second time in months. 

And Esteban is melting right through Checo’s fingertips because _this just feels so right and how could this ever be wrong?_

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Checo kisses the tears away.

  
  
  


The sheets are cold, but Checo is warm. So Esteban presses himself closer to the man, and takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of skin on skin. Takes a moment to appreciate the shallow breaths of the man lying fast asleep beside him. Allows himself to fall through the mattress and allows himself to dream.

  
  
  


Checo isn’t there when he wakes up.

\--------------------

Nothing has changed, but everything is new.

Gone are the uniform good luck messages and the trashy souvenirs, replaced by warm smiles and silent laughter and kicks under the table. 

_This is better._

\--------------------

Esteban finds it slightly amusing how his entire fate rested on one phone call. Chuckles a little when he realises that this all burned down when one man’s too-fat fingers clicked his contact name. 

If Checo felt any particular way about the whole situation, he didn’t say anything. Not like there was much needed to be said. They continue to make out between motorhomes, before press conferences, because the world is their bedroom. And Esteban doesn’t pick up the fact that each kiss seems to drag longer, that Checo’s lips would seem hesitant to pull away, that each touch lingers for more than a few seconds as the season draws to a close. 

_We’re gonna be alright._

What a fucking lie.

\--------------------

Esteban isn’t angry in Brazil. Rather, he wasn’t angry until someone unceremoniously pushed him off the weighing scale. _Can’t frogs just stick to their ponds and lakes and shit._ Max was a living example of how fame fucks with one’s morals. Esteban may have done some _partially incorrect_ things, but there was no way in hell he was admitting his mistake. Or punching Max back. That would be animal abuse. 

He fuels his irritation and morphs it into a grin. 

Max pushes him again.

  
  
  


It’s past ten by the time Esteban gets sick of his own anger and decides to share it with someone else. 

The door to Checo’s hotel room serves as a rather unsuccessful barrier as Esteban barges in, beer in hand, ready for a long night of complaints and endless fucking. 

Checo is a silhouette in the window, São Paulo’s city lights decorating the air around him. The shadow of a man who isn’t completely there at all. 

The room smells like grenadine and maraschino cherries.

“Hey, old man.”

Checo doesn’t reply. Esteban follows his gaze to a rooftop party on one of the nearby flats. A small boy blows out the candles on a cake. Men in tank tops whoop and cheer. A woman in a tattered red dress kisses his forehead. The crescent moon watches silently from above. 

Esteban doesn’t question it. _Probably some old Mexican childhood stuff._

“Did you see what Verstappen fucking did to me? I swear sometimes that man doesn’t know when to—”

“Stop, Esteban.”

Checo’s voice is gravelly, like he screamed and then tried to soothe his throat with ice cubes. 

“Checo, he _pushed_ me.”

A moment of silence. 

“For good reason.”

_Fucking Mexican dirtbag._

The beer in his hand starts to feel more like a weapon than a drink.

Checo is finally facing Esteban, and the _look_ in his eyes is enough to make Esteban descend into a pit of absolute confusion and despair. 

It’s a cocktail of sorts - sadness, and anger, and loss, spiked with a sprinkle of disappointment. Esteban doesn’t know how to describe it and he isn’t sure if he wants to.

“What the hell, Checo?” A blind flail of self defense in the darkness. 

The stare he gets in return is poison in its purest form. 

“You should’ve left space for him, no? Don’t know why you’re fucking up your own races.”

Esteban’s blood is roaring. “How the _hell_ is any of this my fault? He _pushed_ me, Checo, he— Checo, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

The dull thrumming in his veins has barely subsided when Checo starts again. 

“I am on my own side.”

_Then what the fuck were these past few months?_

Checo’s lips are wet with venom. 

“Esteban, I think you should go.” He smiles. “Maybe try not to crash for your last race.”

Esteban is on his feet but they walk towards Checo, not the exit. He doesn’t register the words that he spits. And some part of him _knows_ that he’ll regret this when he wakes up but he _wants_ Checo to hurt and to fall into the same helpless hell that he’s in because he’ll never make it in there alone. So his sentences are laced with hurt and betrayal and _fuck you_ and _I hate you_ and _I can’t believe I thought it was lo_ — 

Checo’s eerily calm voice wakes him out of his daze.

“You’re leaving soon, best not to get too attached. Tomorrow, we will sit on the plane together. After that, do not talk to me.”

And he’s back looking out the window again. The rooftop party is over. The woman in the dress is taking down the strings of lights. The boy is nowhere to be found. 

Esteban leaves his beer on the counter. 

His bed is cold when he gets back.

\--------------------

The last email Esteban gets from Otmar is a strange one. It’s, once again, addressed to the entire Force India team. The mandatory, i’m-a-good-boss kind of email, about _how great we have all been this year,_ and _we will strive to reach greater heights next year,_ and _show up for Esteban’s farewell party or I’ll fire you haha._

It feels more like an order than an invitation. Parties and Otmar don’t really go together. Yet, alcohol was the type of mind-numbing distraction Esteban needed and still needs right now. 

So he _RSVP_ s for his own party. 

  
  
  


The first thing he notices about the club is the sheer _amount_ of people. Esteban recognises a solid thirty percent of the faces in the room. Maybe less. None of them look at him as he walks in. No one would think that this was his farewell party. Or a party at all. A room of sweaty strangers could fall anywhere from a party to a prison cell. Esteban knows which definition this one falls under. 

He spies someone waving in his direction. It’s a strange feeling when he sees that it’s only Lance. 

It’s early. 

_He’s probably on his way._

Only a tiny part of him doesn’t think this is a lie. And at this point, Esteban can’t give two fucks about coming off as clingy, because two weeks of no communication seems long enough to him, and because he has nothing more to lose. 

Somehow, his hands still shake when he sends it.

And he’s making his way over to Lance because Lance is the closest thing to a friend that he has. 

Because friendships don’t ever last long in this business.

The stupid _marimba_ ringtone is louder than the bass pumping out from the speakers, and yet no one hears it but Esteban. And his hands are slipping and _scrambling_ and trying to unlock his phone as quickly as possible. 

The reply is both relieving and unnerving. 

So Esteban allows himself to be dragged around the entire night - half by Lance, and half by Otmar - meaning that he’s flying from a table of tequila shots to a group of stolid businessmen that he’ll never see again. He doesn’t know when he realises that he’s here purely as Otmar’s mascot, and doesn’t know when he starts being okay with it. 

Lance lets him get drunk and have a couple drinks thrown in his face by several of his _dear party guests_. And Esteban lets it all happen because he’s drinking and living and breathing alcohol. When Lance actually starts to get concerned, Esteban slaps his hand away from the glasses.

_It’s alright, Checo is on his way._

There are many things that Esteban doesn’t realise this night, like the sneers from Otmar’s side of the bar, or the repeated sighs escaping Lance’s mouth. Sighs and sneers bleed into voices, no, _Checo’s_ voice, but it’s all in his head, and he doesn’t realise that Checo isn’t coming until he’s passed out on a counter of tequila and spilt spirits. 

  
  
  


It’s definitely past twelve when Esteban leaves through the back door and staggers back to his hotel, no longer a man, but a mess of emotions and ragged breathing. It surprises him when he doesn’t fall asleep the second his back hits the sofa. Instead, he stares past his feet at the giant floor-length window. 

Abu Dhabi’s night sky stares back at him. 

And then the sound of marimbas fills the room, and his breathing comes out shaky once again, but it’s just Lance, saying that he’d left his wallet at the club. 

  
  
  


Esteban is back in the hallway and it’s not a fever dream because each and every one of his bones are aching and his head is absolutely pounding and yet, he’s never felt so alive. Each knock on his door echoes too damn loud, making Esteban cringe. Every second drags on too damn long, but maybe Checo is already sleeping, and there’s no use.

Until the door opens.

And Checo is standing there in a button-down shirt and jeans. Like he was ready to go out for a night of clubbing but changed his mind in the last second. 

Esteban furrows his brows because his tongue seems to be failing him, and nothing is leaving his mouth. Checo waits. Esteban rocks back on his heels. 

“Bye, old man.”

Checo’s eyes crinkle. 

“Bye, Esteban.”

\--------------------

It’s time for Esteban to get up.

\--------------------

It’s Monday morning. Checo only wakes up when his alarm goes off. He reminds himself to change the ringtone. Marimba sounds just aren’t fitting this early in the morning. 

_Today is a new day. Leave the past in the past._

The Mexican sunrise is gorgeous. 

Checo has to tear himself away from the window. 

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this was just an opportunity for me to figure out what constitutes love and what it means to be in love. Because way too many people don't understand it. And neither do I. A whole lot of swaggy unfinished business here.


End file.
